Going to Israel (2)

On Monday, I arrived in Israel for the first time in my life after so many years… decades… of waiting, hoping, praying.

I came alone.

I knew it was going to be emotional. I knew it was going to be intense.

I was prepared… or so I thought.

It was like being prepared to be hit by a bus… compared to actually being hit by a bus.

When the plane touched down in Tel Aviv, I began weeping. [1]

I could barely stand. Other passengers grabbed their carry on bags and headed out. I was in a daze.

I made my way through a blur of tears. I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I moved as if in a trance. Was this really happening? Am I in one of the thousands of dreams and daydreams I’ve had over the last 30 or 40 years?

I was nervous about being questioned by Israeli authorities. Who was I? Where was I from? Where was I born? Why was I coming to Israel? Was I Jewish? A Jew with an Italian name? Were my parents Jewish? Did I convert? What rabbinical court converted me? My daughter lives in Israel? She immigrated to Israel? Where does she live? What is her address? Is this my first visit? What prayer does a Jew make when he embarks on a trip? Recite the first line. Do I wear tefillin? When do I wear them? When do I NOT wear them? What was the Torah reading for last Shabbes? What’s the Torah reading for next Shabbes? Was I married? Did I have an aufrufen? Did I read from the Torah? What was the Torah portion? Can I recite the first line from my haftorah portion? What holiday is coming up in 2 weeks? What book is read? Recite the blessings that are read before the book is read. Can you read the first few lines from that book? Do you know the melody that goes with that reading?

I had heard so many stories about Israeli security. I was nervous. I stepped up to the customs officer and handed her my passport.

“What is the purpose of your visit?”

I explained that this was my first visit to Israel and that I came to see my daughter who made aliyah (i.e. emigrated to Israel) a year ago.

“Where does she live?”

I told her she lives in Ramat Gan.

“How long are you going to be in Israel?”

I said I was staying for two weeks, returning on February 25.

The customs officer looked at me for a few moments, sizing me up.

She smiled and handed me back my passport and told me to proceed to baggage claims.

I walked to the baggage claim area and searched for my luggage. A plain black suitcase. My dear friend (and international travel guide) Tracy suggested I attach some brightly-coloured masking tape or cloth to make it distinguishable. I found it. Both wheels were broken off.

I extended the handle and dragged the suitcase behind me as I moved out into the main lobby. I felt numb. It all seemed so unreal. I couldn’t help feeling that I was going to wake up at any moment.

A tall handsome young man with a wide smile. Tomer. My daughter’s boyfriend. He waves and comes to me, giving me a big warm tight hug.

And then I see my beloved daughter. I’ve not laid eyes on her in over a year.

I cry again. I can’t help it. Tomer helps me with my crippled suitcase.

We walk out into the fresh air. I breathe it deep into my lungs.

I’m here. I feel I’ve finally come home to a place to which I’ve never been before.

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[1] Actually, I started crying as soon as I heard the landing gear lowering. 

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Why Punctuation Matters!

I saw this the other day and I had to post it here.

It reinforces for me why punctuation matters!

A very happy new year to everyone!

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Check out Facebook.com/grammarly and Grammarly.com!

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Why I Miss The South (Part 8): “Sir” and “Ma’am”

If you’ve spent any time in The South, I’m fairly confident that you will have heard your fair share of “sirs” and “ma’ams,” and in a culture and society where civility and common decency… let alone chivalry… are becoming all but extinct, this is breath of fresh air.

Etiquette… manners, for lack of a better word… is still taught in many segments of The South.

In polite circles, gentlemen still stand when a lady enters the room. Gentlemen nod with perhaps the slightest of bows when they take their leave of a lady. Doors are opened for ladies. Chairs are pulled out and tucked in. “Ladies first” rarely needs to be said… it is a given.

The old saying is that if a woman’s car breaks down at the side of the road, all she has to do is lift the hood and stand by her car. Not 5 minutes will go by before some gentleman… even a truckload of them… will pull up and offer her a hand. My dearly beloved friend from Arkansas, Danielle, confirms this. “Hell… they LIVE for that kind of stuff!”

In grocery stores, gentlemen routinely allow ladies to go ahead in the checkout line. If a lady needs a shopping cart (or buggy, as they are often called), a gentleman will offer to give her his own.

While not born or raised in The South, I’ve adopted the practice of calling just about everyone Sir or Ma’am. I get mixed reactions, to be sure. Some girls think it is quaint or cute. Some women take it as a remark that they look older than they are.

One lady, I believe at the post office, smiled wistfully and said to me, “I can’t remember the last time someone called me Ma’am!”

She patted my arms and said, “Don’t ever stop doing that.”

I do not intend to!

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Why I Miss The South (Part 6): Flirting

I’ve given this a lot of thought and have come to two conclusions.

One: most people don’t know how properly to flirt. This is because…

Two: most people don’t know what flirting is.

Flirting is as complex as it is fundamental.

Flirting is about communicating with a person through a careful procedure that involves a little curiosity, a bit of brevity and laughter, and some meaningful glances and smiles. While it can be aggressive and obvious, I personally put this overt style of flirting in the ‘hitting on someone’ category.

To me, flirting is quiet and subtle. A look that lingers a moment longer than it otherwise would. The tiniest of smiles. The most seemingly innocent double entendre or Freudian slip. A meaningful exchange of glances in reaction to what a third person says. The most subtle of body language. Ideally, only the most observant of bystanders would even know there was any flirting going on at all.

One popular fact that gets tossed around a great deal is that scientists believe there are as many as 52 “flirting signals” used by humans around the world.

I don’t know how or where the scientists picked up such information but speaking strictly for myself the Number One Undisputed Capital of Flirting, bar none, is The South.

There is something about the flirting that goes on south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

Flirting is not merely a skill way down yonder in the land of cotton… it has been elevated, refined and transformed into an Art!

It is through the art of flirtation that people in The South experience the pleasures of interacting with the opposite sex.

Flirting can be a means by which to get into a relationship, of course. It is certainly an enjoyable way to get to know someone initially.

But to me, flirting is an end in and of itself. It doesn’t have to lead anywhere else. To me, flirting is its own reward.

And when flirting with a Southern Girl… the rewards are immeasurable.

It’s been 12 years since I went down to The South. It’s been 12 years since I’ve experienced Flirtation as Art.

Nothing compares. Nothing comes close.

I miss it.

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Loonies I Have Lunched With (Part 9): Practical Jokers

Have you ever eaten anything that you thought was one thing and then, after it was in your mouth, you discover to your horror that it was something entirely different?

(Nonna cooking up some Timbits)

Let me give you an example. Italian grandmother cooking up some meatballs in a skillet, placing the cooked meatballs onto a platter. Little five-year-old grandson comes into the room, sees a platter of what he thinks are Timbits. Child asks his sweet, adorable grandmother if he can have some Timbits. Nonna, who has a sick sense of humour, says, “Sure!” Kid bites into Timbit expecting a sweet, tasty treat and, instead, gets a mouthful of meat, fat, garlic, onions and parsley. Grandson makes horrible icky face. Nonna falls over laughing, thinking the whole shtick is the cutest thing she’s ever seen. Kid bursts into tears and spends years on psychiatrist’s couch trying to get over culinary child abuse.

(Some restaurants are a bit TOO dark!)

I had occasion to witness another example of this kind of evil subterfuge ages ago when some alleged friends of mine and I were having dinner in a dimly lit steakhouse. Gullible Friend was having some difficulty making out what was on his plate through the gloom of the dining room. He lifted a forkful of something and peered at it, trying to figure things out. Evil Friend helpfully suggested that it was mashed potatoes. Gullible Friend smiled and put the forkful into his mouth. His eyes bugged out and he began choking. Evil Friend cackled at her cleverness in fooling someone into eating a heapin’ helpin’ of horseradish.

(Mashed potatoes… or death on a spoon? [Photo Eve Fox])

I’ve never been a fan of practical jokes. I just don’t think they’re funny.

Practical jokes involving anything that needs to be ingested as part of the gag are, to me, particularly not funny.

People grimacing or spitting out food does not crack me up in the least.

Stop it.

Now…

Would you care for a Timbit?

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Why I Miss The South (Part 4): The Stars and Bars

One of the things I miss most about The South is the Stars and Bars.

Otherwise known as the Confederate Battle Flag. [1]

Now I am mindful of that fact that this particular flag is a controversial image. There have been protests and petitions trying to get the Stars and Bars removed from state flags and even to stop flying the flag on schools, government buildings and other public property.

I’m not a part of that history. I wasn’t born in The South. I’m not even American. The baggage associated with the Stars and Bars is something I don’t carry. I can have positive feelings about that flag because I can pick and choose the things with which I associate it.

And I am the first to admit that my associations with the flag have virtually nothing to do with reality and everything to do with a fictional romanticized concept of what I personally feel the flag and The South was, is and should be.

I am sometimes met with a mixture of righteous indignation and moral outrage on this subject. “How would you feel if someone expressed positive feelings about the swastika and Nazi Germany?” Truth be told, I probably wouldn’t feel too good about it. That’s probably because I have a connection to that symbol and what it means.

But all that doesn’t seem to have any effect on me when it comes to the Confederate Battle Flag. Maybe it should… but it just doesn’t.

All the times I’ve been down in The South… all the people I’ve met and befriended… all the places I’ve been to while I was there… all have been positive experiences for me.

When I think of The South, I have nothing but good memories and good feelings. When I think of The South, I remember friends and loved ones.

When I think of The South… I picture the Stars and Bars.

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[1] Also known as The Confederate Naval Jack.

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What’s With The Bacon??

I’ve given it a lot of thought and I’ve come to this conclusion…

… in Canada and the United States, bacon is the closest thing to a religion without actually being one.

I’m serious. It’s more than a mere fixation. It’s more than a national obsession.

People ADORE bacon.

I’ve heard people say (and mean) that they would seriously consider converting to Judaism but…

(Bacon sundae)

… just the thought of life without bacon is something that is, to them, simply unbearable.

I don’t get the obsession.

Sure, bacon tastes great but a lot of things taste great.

(The Bacone!)

Ice cream cones taste great.

(Chocolate-covered bacon – with sprinkles)

Chocolate tastes great.

Candy tastes great.

(Bacon cinnamon buns)

Cinnamon rolls taste great.

Mom’s apple pie tastes great.

And yet none of these foods even come close to the infatuation people have with bacon.

It goes WAY beyond liking it as a food. There is an emotional attachment at play here.

It is a national icon.

I will continue to try to understand this passion for bacon. I’m not sure I will succeed.

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Why I Miss The South (Part 1): Guns!

There was a time in my life when I went down to The South a fair bit.

By this I mean primarily Arkansas, North and South Carolina with a bit of driving through Kentucky, Tennessee, Virginia and West Virginia. Haven’t yet been to Louisiana, Alabama or Georgia.

As for Mississippi… well, there are people in Mississippi who don’t want to be in Mississippi! (Just kidding. Please don’t shoot me!)

(When you hear them say, “Ah hell no!”… you better run!)

I haven’t been to The South since the Passover/Easter weekend before 9/11.

There’s so much I love and miss about The South.

(1861 Navy Colt – the classic handgun of The South)

One of the most striking things you find down there is the entire gun culture. [1]

It’s not that everyone in The South has a gun. I would suspect that most don’t.

But… there is this general all-round feeling among most Southerners that is in some way supportive of the general idea of guns for personal protection.

There is a gleefulness… and also a kind of playfulness… about this mindset that I find hard to resist.

The over-riding sense is that this attitude of bravado is ‘half in jest – whole in earnest.’ Kind of like, “I’m kidding… but not really.”

I love it. I miss it.

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[1] Full disclosure:  None of the friends I visited or stayed with in The South was a gun owner (as far as I know).

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I’m Sorry… What’s Your Name Again?

I have memory problems. Specifically, I have a problem remembering people’s names.

Which is why this article at ScienceDaily.com caught my eye.

The article begins, “Most of us have experienced it. You are introduced to someone, only to forget his or her name within seconds. You rack your brain trying to remember, but can’t seem to even come up with the first letter. Then you get frustrated and think, “Why is it so hard for me to remember names?”

All these years, I presumed I had a faulty or weak memory. I was relieved to find that this may not be the case at all.

It appears that lack of interest, not the brain’s ability (or lack thereof) may be why we forget!

According to Kansas State University’s Richard Harris, professor of psychology, it’s not necessarily your brain’s ability that determines how well you can remember names, but rather your level of interest.

“Some people, perhaps those who are more socially aware, are just more interested in people, more interested in relationships,” Harris said. “They would be more motivated to remember somebody’s name.”

This goes for people in professions like politics or teaching where knowing names is beneficial. But just because someone can’t remember names doesn’t mean they have a bad memory.

“Almost everybody has a very good memory for something,” Harris said.

The key to a good memory is your level of interest, he said. The more interest you show in a topic, the more likely it will imprint itself on your brain. If it is a topic you enjoy, then it will not seem like you are using your memory.

This explains a lot, really, since I generally find most people singularly uninteresting.

It’s not that other people are somehow unimportant or that their lives and problems are invalid. It’s just that they don’t interest me, usually. There are exceptions, of course. Rare ones.

The general rule, however, is that most people I meet are a dusk-to-dawn snooze-a-thon.

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Spaztique!

Every once in a while I venture to say a few well-chosen words about fashion.

I believe my last foray into beaking off about the world of couture (haute or otherwise) was in my October 26, 2011, article “Fashionate!“

I’m due for another venting.

I’d like to discuss a disturbing phenomenon of which I’ve recently become aware…

People (and by this I mean The Great Unwashed [1]) deriving a sick, perverse thrill from watching fashion models fall down.

And yes, I get the humorous angle at play here.

In The Comedy Biz, it is referred to as a Status Drop. It is as least as old as Graeco-Roman comedies… that is, when the actors weren’t parading around the stage wearing enormous phalli. [2]

The principle at work is this… an exalted person suffers a swift and sudden drop in status. The classic example from silent films is the rich, pompous and usually fat man slipping and falling on a banana peel.

A cheap, easy laugh, to be sure.

But what goes on when The Wretched Refuse watch a fashion model slip and fall is much nastier. There is a meanness of spirit that I don’t believe enters into the old Charlie Chaplin ‘fat banker banana fall’ schtick.

The Huddled Masses LOVE it. There is a fiendish glee that is simply absent when, for example, you see some chunky southern girl destroy an above-ground pool simply by going into it.

The models, people feel, somehow deserve to fall. They’ve earned the humiliation and the howls of derisive laughter. It ‘takes them down a few notches’… it ‘cuts them down to size.’

Ladies, you cannot sit still for this kind of attitude from the common rabble!

It’s bad enough that you’re treated like dogs or glorified clothes hangers from those within the business.

You must reclaim the fashion faux-pas… the runway tragedy… and transform it into something chic and glorious.

Let’s take that frown and turn it upside down, ladies. Find the fun in a bad situation!

I give you… SPAZTIQUE!!

Your slip and fall at Paris Fashion Week Spring 2012? It is no longer clumsy… it is Très Spaztique!

That time you lost your balance and fell off the runway in Milan? Proprio Spazticamente!

Everyone thinks your ankle-twisting walk on the Prada runway was klutzy? Far from it! It was Totally Spaztique!

Don’t let Walmart zombie shoppers define you!

Be Chic. Be Spaztique!!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

This article is affectionately dedicated to my dearly beloved friend, Chelsea Dagger [3], who is tall, slender, blonde, gorgeous, smart, athletic, fun, funny, generous, philanthropic, kindhearted, sweet… and a totally spastic klutz!

If it’s beside her or near her, she will find a way to knock it down, trip over or bump into it.

Here’s to you, my darling Chelsea. You’re delightfully Spaztique!

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[1] (i.e. The General Public) I doubt many in the fashion world experience quite the ‘laugh riot’ when a model twists, sprains or breaks her ankle, cracks her kneecap or fractures her wrist.

[2] See Aristophenes’ deliciously funny play Lysistrata - a hilarious account of one woman’s extraordinary mission to end the Peloponnesian War. The title character Lysistrata persuades the other women of Greece to withhold sexual privileges from their husbands and lovers as a means of forcing the men to negotiate peace.

[3] She has, hands down, the coolest name in the world.

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